Fiorsen stared at her a moment in the way that as the maid often said made you feel like a silly. "No. Pay him." The girl glanced at Gyp, answered: "Yes, sir," and went out. Fiorsen laughed; he laughed, holding his sides. It was droll coming on the top of his assertion, too droll! And, looking up at her, he said: "That was good, wasn't it, Gyp?"
Lovely she looked there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again called out: 'Brava! But the curtain fell, and Ophelia did not reappear. Was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was drowned? That "arty" touch would be just like her.
Winton's face expressed nothing but cold contempt. That this fellow should take him for one who would consider money in connection with his daughter simply affronted him. Fiorsen went on: "You do not like me that is clear. I saw it the first moment. You are an English gentleman" he pronounced the words with a sort of irony "I am nothing to you. Yet, in MY world, I am something.
During this progress, she told him about her father; but only when they were seated in that comparative refuge, and his hand was holding hers under cover of the sunshade that lay across her knee, did she speak of Fiorsen. He tightened his grasp of her hand; then, suddenly dropping it, said: "Did he touch you, Gyp?" Gyp heard that question with a shock. Touch her! Yes! But what did it matter?
If you accept him, it will be against my wish, naturally." While he was speaking, the glow in her cheeks deepened; she looked neither at him nor at Fiorsen. Winton noted the rise and fall of the lace on her breast. She was smiling, and gave the tiniest shrug of her shoulders. And, suddenly smitten to the heart, he walked stiffly to the door. It was evident that she had no use for his guidance.
Something in the sound of that "No" touched Winton with a vague a very vague compunction. To be left by Gyp! Then his heart hardened again. The fellow was a rotter he was sure of it, had always been sure. "Baby looks well," he said. Fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again. "Where is Gyp? I want her to come in. I want her." Winton took out his watch. "It's not late."
Her smiling face had in it a kind of warning closeness. She went up to Fiorsen, and holding out her hand, said calmly: "How nice of you to come!" Winton had the bitter feeling that he he was the outsider. Well, he would speak plainly; there had been too much underhand doing. "Mr. Fiorsen has done us the honour to wish to marry you. I've told him that you decide such things for yourself.
Miss Daphne had already shed half her garments. "Oh, I'm so excited, Mrs. Fiorsen! I do hope I shall dance well." Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday evening, the servants had been easily disposed of. She sat down at the piano, turning her eyes toward the garden.
It was not merely the careful speech but something lacking when the perfect mouth moved spirit, sensibility, who could say? And Gyp felt sorry, as at blight on a perfect flower. With a friendly nod, she turned away to Fiorsen, who was waiting to go up on to the platform. Was it at her or at the girl he had been looking? She smiled at him and slid away.
The word "home" hurt him, and he only answered: "Very well, Gyp; when?" "The house is quite ready. I think I had better go to-morrow. He's still at Rosek's. I won't let him know. Two or three days there by myself first would be better for settling baby in." "Very well; I'll take you up." He made no effort to ascertain her feelings toward Fiorsen. He knew too well.